


Avenger

by TheLordOfLaMancha



Series: Sublime Kumquats [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, M/M, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-25
Updated: 2015-03-25
Packaged: 2018-03-19 12:04:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3609450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLordOfLaMancha/pseuds/TheLordOfLaMancha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When none of the Amis check in after a rally gone south, Grantaire has to know that Enjolras is alright.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Avenger

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theconfusedartist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theconfusedartist/gifts).



> Birthday Gift fic for [theconfusedartist](http://archiveofourown.org/users/theconfusedartist).
> 
> Enjoy yah nerd.
> 
> This fic is part of a series based on the songs on a playlist theconfusedartist made me for Christmas. [Listen here.](http://8tracks.com/theconfusedartist/sublime-kumquats-aren-t-here-to-stay)
> 
> This fic: How Far We've Come by Matchbox 20

Grantaire was running. To where, he wasn’t entirely sure, but the burn in his thighs and the rawness of his throat felt somehow better than the worry curling deep in his stomach and the profound ache in his chest. His fingernails dug into his palms where his hands were clenched into fists. He ran aimlessly, his breathing ragged and uneven, coming in gasps and desperate gulps of air to keep fueling his muscles as he put one foot in front of the other.

What time was it? Grantaire didn’t really know. Was it ten yet? An hour after Enjolras had promised to check in after the rally downtown. That must be where I’m heading, Grantaire thinks, yes, it’s the only answer. He had been working on flyers to the sounds of the radio covering the protest when he was startled by the screaming and frantic stream of description pouring out of a breathless reporter. Grabbing his phone from the table and standing to pace a hole into the floor of the living room, Grantaire watched a steady stream of police cars and ambulances race down the boulevard outside his apartment heading straight for the core. He had grown impatient with his phone as it dialed, a panic vice grip locked around it as he held it to his ear, his jaw set and teeth clamped tightly together.

Enjolras’ voicemail.

Grantaire had endeavoured to remain calm. Evidently, so had the reporter, desperately filing from the scene live over the radio. A tap of his phone told him it was only 8:30. Enjolras had promised he, or one of the Amis, would check in by 9. Grantaire tried to reassure himself with the sounds of the radio report, the journalist babbling on about some kind of explosion. It was empty reassurance, the reporter knew about as much as Grantaire did. There was a lot of smoke, the reporter had said. It was difficult to see. Was it tear gas? Was it something else?

Nine had come and passed. And so had a thousand urgent texts from Grantaire to all the Amis at the rally. No calls, no knocks at his thin apartment door. And now he was running carelessly in the only direction he thought he had any hope of finding Enjolras.

Grantaire felt incredibly frustrated. He wasn’t sure if he was angry or lost or anguished. He was most certainly angry with himself. If anything happened to Enjolras… if he was dead… Oh god. Grantaire wanted to cry, wanted to scream, wanted to desperately beat something until it was all out of him, but it felt like a hundred strings were holding him back and it was a gargantuan effort to take a single step.

He had to get out of the situation. So he ran away. But his mind lashed him repeatedly with a hundred never ending thoughts of the worst. _This is it, you knew this would come someday. He’s reckless, and it finally happened. You shouldn’t have gotten this invested. You should have gone with him. You could have done something. This is all your fault, you could have been there…_

Grantaire came to a halt on a corner just down the street from where a police blockade had been set up, a crowd milling about to take in the spectacle of disaster. His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he fished it out with fumbling fingers, frantically pressing the answer button. It was Courfeyrac.

“Is he with you?” was the first thing that Courfeyrac asked when Grantaire answered. He sounded panicked.

“No… no,” Grantaire replied shaking his head. There was no hiding the brokenness of his voice. “Oh God, where is he? Courf? Tell me he’s okay.”

“I don’t know, man,” Courfeyrac replied solemnly and there was also an exceptional amount of worry in the tinny sound of his voice over the speaker. “I wish I could tell you. He was pretty close to where it happened… He was there and then he was gone!”

If even Courfeyrac was worried… Grantaire sat on the curb and covered his mouth with his hands, his eyes closed as the tears began running unchecked down his face. God, he was crying. The world was eerily silent, but for Courfeyrac’s voice on the phone. There was the sound of some kind of struggle on the other end, he could hear the distant sound of Courfeyrac shouting something. Someone else spoke next.

“I’m sorry, Grantaire,” Combeferre, ever the voice of reason, said calmly. “Courfeyrac is just a bit shaken up. I’m sure everything will be fine. Enjolras can handle himself, we both know that.”

Did he though? He didn’t know how much Enjolras told Combeferre these days. Did Combeferre know just how shaken up Enjolras had been after the last demonstration had gone south, after all the anger had gone out of him ranting to Grantaire for hours, just how afraid Enjolras had been? Grantaire didn’t want to ever have to witness Enjolras seeming so incredibly small ever again. Though, he would bear it a hundred times over to know that Enjolras was alright.

“Grantaire?” Combeferre’s voice was steady. “Where are you?”

“Out-Outside the blockade, a few blocks down… On the boulevard,” Grantaire managed to get out when he had steadied his breathing enough not to sob into the phone.

“Good good,” Combeferre soothed. “I have to stay here and help where I can. I’ll send Courfeyrac to you, just stay where you are alright?”

Grantaire nodded, not trusting his voice, and forgetting Combeferre couldn’t see him.

“Yes,” Grantaire managed to breathe out.

“He’s fine, Grantaire,” Combeferre said seriously before hanging up.

Grantaire dropped the phone to the ground in front of him and let himself shake with sobs, the heels of his hands wedged deeply into his eyes and his fingers knotting into the curls of his hair. Why did he come? Why did he run here? Grantaire knew it was all headed for hell, this is the last place he should be. And yet, here he was, crying into the sidewalk like he had already given up and said his goodbyes. The ache in his heart had ceased to a numb somewhere along the sprint here, and he just felt void. Empty. This was it. It was over. Enjolras would be dead this time, and for what? How far had they come?

There was a warm, slightly sticky, hand on his arm and Grantaire moved so he could see a blurry but familiar pair of red converse sneakers through his tears. The jeans were rife with scrapes and bits of asphalt all down the one side, and almost reluctantly, Grantaire blinked and looked up.

There, worriedly fussing over Grantaire’s matted hair and tear stained face, was the glowing face of Enjolras, though marred slightly by a gash across his cheekbone and a nasty looking bruise blooming on his temple.

It was like the wind was knocked out of him, and Grantaire could hardly breathe, his mouth agape.

“R, shit, R, I’m sorry!” Enjolras pleaded, frantically wiping the tears from Grantaire’s face with his thumb. “I had to move… I had to leave… I couldn’t… My phone…”

Enjolras was gesturing wildly behind him at something Grantaire could only assume was where Enjolras had come from. Grantaire didn’t let him finish the thought, throwing his arms around Enjolras and holding him like he was the only thing keeping him from drowning.

“I really thought,” Grantaire mumbled into Enjolras’ tattered red jacket, slowly breathing in the scent of Enjolras between the mingling smells of smoke and gunpowder and blood. “I thought you were… I couldn’t…”

Enjolras pulled back to look at Grantaire incredulously, but quickly followed with a mischievous smirk. And Grantaire thought, just watching Enjolras’ face before him, that although the world was going to hell, perhaps heaven had sent an avenger.


End file.
